Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [41]
The petty officer’s whip hand hung loosely at his side, the cat’s leather, stained dark with blood, curled about his feet. He used his left wrist to wipe his forehead, then spat into his right hand and rubbed it down his trouser leg before gripping the cat again.
Paul Jones stood with shoulders braced, eyes cold as they stared into the distance. Richard Dale glanced at the commodore’s dissatisfaction, then leaned forward.
“Lieutenant Stack! Continue the punishment!”
The young lieutenant standing behind the petty officer stiffened, eyes shifting to the row of officers on the bridge. He loosened his jaws and bellowed. “Mr. Beaumont! If you please!”
The petty officer’s head dipped. “Aye aye, sir.” He drew a deep breath and swung. What had been a crack when the cat bit flesh had become a soggy thud. He swung again and again. Lt. Stack, aware the commodore’s eyes were on him, called the count loudly. When there was a lull between lashes he shouted: “Lay on there, Mr. Beaumont!”
“Aye aye, sir.” There was no enthusiasm in the reply. Gritting his teeth he drew back his arm in a concentrated effort to throw his weight behind the next blow.
“Fifty! Fifty-one! Fifty-two!”
Towers was whimpering now. Tears blended with sweat where his face had taken on the texture of melted wax. No more damage could be inflicted on his ruined flesh. Carved open to the backbone, blood poured down over the waistband of his filthy trousers to stain them scarlet, droplets flying each time the cat’s vicious tails struck.
“One hundred! One hundred and one! One hundred and two!”
Richard Dale felt sick. He looked away from the spectacle, in his opinion more in keeping with the barbarity of ancient Rome than the modern navy. He had witnessed floggings before, and no doubt would again, but this had gone beyond comprehension. Further along the row of attending officers he could see the ship’s surgeon, Dr. Brooke, red-faced as he stared down from the bridge. Lt. Dale shuffled.
Paul Jones turned a jaundiced eye on him, noting his ashen face. “Pay attention to the punishment. You may find it disturbing, but it will continue until he has received his sentence.”
“But…” Dale faltered.
The commodore’s voice was cold. “What you are watching, Mr. Dale, is punishment for mutiny, the worst offence that can take place on any ship, whether at war or not. However cruel it appears, perhaps he will live afterwards. If so, he should consider himself fortunate. It is necessary for every man on this ship to realize the consequences of mutiny. I want that word never to enter the brain, never mind reach the lips of any man who serves under me.” He glanced down at the broken body hanging at the gangway. Already it seemed to carry the stench of death. Two seamen were sluicing the unconscious Towers with buckets of seawater to bring him around so the punishment could continue. “Do you think he would have thought twice about taking your life if he had succeeded in gaining command of Richard?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Dale offered timidly, “but he knows no better.”
The commodore was grim. “But you do.” He gestured to the horrified faces of the crew. “And now they do too.”
***
Perhaps they knew better about mutiny, but the crew still learned the hard way, Paul Jones reflected as he leaned against the weather rail, watching men stream across the yards above the main deck to reef slack sails. Barely days after Quartermaster Towers had been flogged to within an inch of his life before being put ashore into a French prison, justice had again to be served. While the commodore was ashore attending to business in Lorient, the coxswain and crew left his personal barge unguarded while they visited several local taverns and whorehouses. Paul Jones had been forced to hire a fishing boat to ferry him back to Richard. Another boat had to be lowered to round up the drunken barge crew. Any semblance of a court was unnecessary. In the cold light of the following